augury doggerel

Tuesday, August 12, 2003


At the pub, two come in and take a corner. There is too much of her for her skirt and tube top, too much coil and marl on her head. While he watches up into motorcycle races in the corner, she is hiking and climbing, adjusting straps and gear. When they bring her a fruit cup, she scoops as if she hasn't eaten today. A small spoon and big mouth work hard together, and hair falls about her face as she leans into it. Motorcycles whine round the dirt track.

Later. Another corner, another pair, but shameless loud voices, broken glass collected, drink prices talked. I angle round in the mirror and see a woman dressed for street work, the old look of unsprung dancer, addressing a man in the third person but applying first-person hands. The barman is slow to serve them but he doesn't remove them. She knows the line to walk and he knows she'd cost more embarrassment and glass ejected than tolerated. When she comes to fix herself in the mirror hanging over me, she looks at my shopping and asks who the Friskies are for. I say they're for me and she growls, calls me tiger, and strokes my back as she turns for her corner.

I may try the Parrot tomorrow.


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